


Power & Control

by extasiswings



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, Smut, The Salem Witch Hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 13:45:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14262279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: Garcia Flynn is a dangerous man. Skilled, intelligent, powerful. And he doesn’t cede control to anyone, doesn’t let anyone or anything else dictate what he’s going to do at any given time.Except for her. He’d looked to her for permission. He’d waited for her to give it before acting, even though he’d been itching to act from the moment they arrived in Salem. She hadn’t even needed to say a word.That’spower. It sings in her veins, sweet and hot and addictive, and god help her, she likes it.





	Power & Control

**Author's Note:**

> This was started prior to 2x04 based on the clip of Lucy and Flynn exchanging a glance and Flynn then throwing Puritans into things because I was...inspired. A few random other points include the spoiler that Lucy's going to go to him within the next few episodes and make him tell her about the journal and my personal favorite headcanon that Flynn and future Lucy slept together when she gave him the journal. Probably not my greatest work, but hey.

When Lucy Preston takes stock of all the things she is, powerful isn’t the first word that comes to mind. Smart, absolutely. Independent, sure. Beautiful...well, as she and Wyatt joked in 1941, she’s at least never been hideous. But powerful?

There are pockets of her life where she’s had power—as a professor, she controlled the grades of her students, and she definitely sat through multiple trainings explaining why that meant professors shouldn’t have relationships with those students—but it always felt peripheral. Incidental to something else. She had power because of her job, not because any single individual explicitly gave it to her or because she sought it out. It just...was. Feeling powerful, _being_ powerful, that’s always struck her as something different. 

And then, in Salem, Massachusetts, Garcia Flynn throws a man into a chair on a single look from her, and as Lucy walks away from the chaos she thinks, _Oh_. 

Because Garcia Flynn is a dangerous man. Skilled, intelligent, powerful. And he doesn’t cede control to anyone, doesn’t let anyone or anything else dictate what he’s going to do at any given time. 

Except for her. He’d looked to her for permission. He’d waited for her to give it before acting, even though he’d been itching to act from the moment they arrived in Salem. She hadn’t even needed to say a word. 

_That’s_ power. It sings in her veins, sweet and hot and addictive, and god help her, she likes it. 

(After Rittenhouse, after Wyatt and Jessica—when so many things in her life keep crashing down, when it seems like the universe is conspiring to make her as power _less_ as possible—she needs it. Power. Control. She needs it.)

When Flynn first arrived at the bunker, Wyatt snarled that they should keep him on a leash. At the time, Lucy hadn’t realized that was possible. After Salem, she knows Flynn’s already on one, but she’s the only person who can see it. She’s the one who holds the end. She’s the only person who could. 

Lucy watches him after that. She’s recovering, she’s not allowed to participate in missions until she’s healed, so she watches Flynn. Watches and wonders—why her? Why give her that kind of power over him? Why trust her that much? And how far does that trust extend? 

Flynn would kill for her, she knows that. Perhaps more importantly, he’ll hold back if she asks him to. But what are the boundaries? The limits? How far can she push or pull in either direction before he decides to hell with leashes, he’d rather do this alone? 

Watching him doesn’t answer those questions. But it at least gives her something to do besides sitting around and feeling sorry for herself. 

(If she stares at the ceiling at night and recalls how good she felt in that moment, if she wonders whether Flynn would cede that same control to her in other, more intimate circumstances, that’s between her and her ceiling.)

* * *

Lucy doesn’t push. She experiments. She wears Flynn’s jacket, steals his sweaters, sits next to him when no one else will, when there’s hardly space there to begin with because he takes up so much of it. She talks with him in the middle of the night when neither of them can sleep. When she gets bolder, she touches him. A hand on his arm, fingers ghosting his side when she passes him. Little nudges. Little tests. 

He never stops her. He never says a word. 

(She doesn’t know what he wants. It’s infuriating.)

It takes four weeks of recovery, of more missions, of fighting and struggling and losing for Lucy to be fed up enough to push hard. 

(If she has power over Flynn, and she’s pretty sure she does, then what’s the point of having it if she can’t get some damn answers?)

“Tell me about the journal,” she demands from his doorway. 

Flynn looks up and his face settles into the mask of unruffled nonchalance that never fails to set her teeth on edge. 

“Most people would knock first,” he replies. 

“I’m not here to play games, Flynn.” Lucy steps into the room and allows the door to shut behind her. “I want answers. And I’m not leaving until I get them.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

Flynn looks up at the ceiling, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips as he considers that. 

“I already told you. It’s yours. You gave it to me.”

“That’s impossible,” Lucy argues. “We can’t travel on our own timelines. There’s no way—”

“Time travel should be impossible, period, and yet we have a time machine,” Flynn interrupts.

“Fine, then. Why did I give it to you?” she asks. “Why not Wyatt or Rufus or—why you?”

For the first time in a long time, Flynn looks genuinely uncomfortable. 

“I can’t tell you that.”

Lucy could scream. Is this the limit? The journal? He’ll do so much for her, allow her so much, tell her so much, but he won’t answer one simple question?

“Why not?”

For a moment, she thinks he won’t say anything, but then Flynn sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. 

“I promised you I wouldn’t,” he replies. He meets her eyes and Lucy knows in that moment that no matter what thrall this other Lucy has over him, no matter what promises he made to her, if she were to insist on an answer right now, in the right way, he would crack. Part of her is tempted. 

(It’s a very strange experience, being jealous of yourself. Wanting to prove a point to a future you. But then, strange experiences are par for the course these days.) 

“Then…” Lucy bites her lip and thinks for a moment. “Can you at least tell me what the journal says? You gave it back to me, after all. Surely you can do that.”

The relief that floods Flynn’s face is so stark it’s as though she’s released him from a noose. She tries not to wonder what could possibly be so damning about the question of why him that would invite such a response. 

“Yes,” he agrees. “I can do that. It starts with the Hindenburg…”

* * *

Flynn watches her after that. He always has, but Lucy notices it more once there’s weight behind his glances. Expectation. As though he’s waiting for something, just like he was in Salem, only for once she doesn’t know what.

(Although, while she may not know, she certainly suspects. How could she not when some of his looks sear her to the core with heat?) 

She lasts two weeks after they visit 1919 before finally breaking. When she slips out of her room that night, she tells herself it isn’t a big deal. It’s just another experiment, like all the others. 

(Although, an experiment for which one of them, she isn’t sure. Rittenhouse is kicking their asses and she’s tense, distracted. She needs an outlet. She needs to feel like she has control over something, even if that something is just herself.)

Flynn’s sitting on the edge of his bed when Lucy comes into his room. He doesn’t look up when the door shuts—she’s not surprised given that she’s the only one who ever crosses the threshold—but he does when she stops in front of him. For once, he doesn’t make a smartass comment. He doesn’t even ask outright why she’s there, merely tips his head in silent question when she steps between his knees. 

It’s a strange sensation, looking down at Flynn. His height gives him the advantage in every other interaction—from Lucy’s perspective at least, it seems to be much easier to command a room when everyone has to look up to speak to you. And she’s seen him use that, get up close to someone so the person has to crane back unless they want to look away. 

(But you don’t look away from a man like Garcia Flynn when he has you in his sights. Not if you want to survive the encounter.)

It’s a power play. And as Lucy leans in closer, sees him tilt his head back to continue holding her gaze, sees the way his mouth curves up at the edges, she can understand why he does it. It’s a rush. 

And still, Flynn doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t touch her either, not even when it would be so easy to put his hands on her hips and pull her closer, or push her away entirely. From the way his hands curl around the edge of the bed, she can tell he wants to touch her. But he doesn’t. 

Lucy reaches out, ghosts a finger along the edge of his jaw—Flynn swallows hard.

(It’s a dangerous game she’s playing. She feels as though she’s stepped onto a tightrope with no plan for how to navigate it—and yet, she’s not convinced a little freefall might not be exactly what she needs. Her pulse is racing, her skin feels too tight, she’s burning up inside. But it’s good. God, it’s good.)

_Make your move_ , Flynn’s eyes seem to say. 

(Push, pull. Leashes, limits, boundaries. Too much, too little. Does any of it matter when they’ve been dancing around this from the beginning?)

Lucy tips his chin up with the same finger, leaning in until her lips are so close to his that the smallest breeze could lead to a kiss. But she doesn’t close the gap. When Flynn doesn’t either, she smiles. 

_Good. Very good._

(The tightrope grows even thinner beneath her.)

“Goodnight, Garcia,” she says. A tease. A challenge. She has no intention of leaving.

When she steps back, she could swear his grip on the edge of the bed tightens. 

“Lucy—” Flynn’s voice is rougher than Lucy has ever heard it, and the need that curls around those two syllables roots her to the floor. 

“Something you wanted?” She asks. 

“You know there is,” he replies. When she meets his gaze again, she shivers from the naked want therein. 

(Part of her wants to draw this out even further. To make him say it. That he wants her. Needs her. That he isn’t going to run from her as soon as he gets this. The rest of her though—the rest of her knows exactly why she’s in his room and doesn’t feel much like waiting any longer.)

“Then take it,” Lucy says. 

As though a cord’s been cut, Flynn snaps into motion, pulling her into his lap and kissing her hard. It’s just like Salem. Permission, then action. Only this time, she’s in the middle of the chaos instead of walking away from it. She’s surrounded by his heat, his bulk, and when he slips his hands under her sweater, everything else fades away for several delicious moments as her focus narrows to those points of contact. 

(Freefall.)

There’s no Rittenhouse. No Wyatt and Jessica. Nothing. Nothing but her and Flynn and his mouth and his hands, answering every question she ever had about who she is to him without saying a word because no one has ever touched her so perfectly on the first try. 

“You’ve done this before,” Lucy says when she pulls away to catch her breath. Flynn bites back a smirk as he pushes her back on the mattress and sinks to his knees on the floor, hooking two fingers into the band of her sweatpants. 

“Quite a bit,” he replies, nipping at her hip as he tugs the pants off. It drags a small noise from her throat and Lucy wonders if satisfying her curiosity really matters now, when she could just let Flynn focus on satisfying other parts of her. 

“No, you’ve done this with me before,” she clarifies. It earns her another bite, this time to her inner thigh, sharp enough to walk the knife’s edge between pleasure and pain. When she gasps, Flynn soothes the mark with his tongue. 

“Can we talk about that later?” He asks. It’s enough of an answer for the moment. 

“Give me something else to think about, then,” Lucy replies, tangling a hand in his hair and tugging lightly at the strands. 

Flynn laughs at that, but he spreads her legs wider in response, the rough calluses on his hands teasing the sensitive skin on her thighs. 

“I think I can manage that.”

And, god, his mouth. She’s seen him cut men to ribbons with the sharpness of his tongue, seen him commit devastating violence with his hands, but having them on her—teasing her, tasting her, making her shiver and sigh and moan—that’s an entirely different kind of devastation altogether. 

Lucy’s quiet when she comes—the walls are thin, and she doesn’t want to draw attention—but she tugs at Flynn’s hair hard enough that he hisses through his teeth as he lifts his head. If he minds though, he doesn’t say, just allows her to pull him back to the bed to kiss her again. 

They could sleep. She could leave. Lucy can see in Flynn’s eyes as when he breaks the kiss that as far as he’s concerned, whatever this is between them, it’s her call. She’s in control, like she always is with him. 

But she doesn’t want to sleep. And she definitely doesn’t want to leave. So instead, she fucks him, and when she comes a second time, she leaves a mark on his neck that only might be hidden by his shirt collars. 

(He doesn’t mind that either.)

“I won’t forget that you promised me answers,” Lucy says later, when she’s twined around Flynn half-asleep. 

“I didn’t think you would,” Flynn replies. “But I’ll still have them in the morning. We can talk then.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

The last thing Lucy remembers is the soft press of a kiss to her hair.


End file.
